


Chansons Encrées

by versions91



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Canonical Age Difference, Eames' Stupid Cupid Exchange, Expensive Furniture, F/F, Femslash February, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Insecurities, Light Angst, Mention of ex-Cobb/Mal, Pining, Social drinking, Tattoos, tattooartist!Mal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-18 22:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13691232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/pseuds/versions91
Summary: “Pain, is in the mind.” Mal offered, as if that was a consolatory thought. Ariadne didn't question the logic out loud, as the working artist’s needle had made contact on Lina’s skin.





	1. PETITE FLEUR

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedrunkpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/gifts).



> [Kate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/katythereader) is an absolute star for beta-ing, bearing with my uber last-minute updates and prolonged writing process with endless patience and cheer. Thank you so, so much! 
> 
> Written for Renn, who prompted tattoos, art, and pining.
> 
> Note: Mal and Cobb are divorced in this verse, which is the ex-Cobb/Mal bit, but that's contextual and not the focus.

Ariadne went to the tattoo place with Lina, because Lina wanted a branch of rue on her left arm, and was nervous (Lina asking for Yusuf’s opinion – Lina, who has at least four body piercings and whose mind travels on a single high-speed lane, not only second-guessing herself, but also asking for _Yusuf’s_ opinion, was the sign for intervention), so Ariadne volunteered her company to take a train to New York on a Saturday in March, despite Lina’s pointed reminder that Ariadne’s models wouldn’t build themselves, and she had two weeks until Jury Week.

“I know.” Ariadne wouldn't quit. “So, let me go to New York again before it's all over.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Lina passed her a plate of bread pudding with vanilla ice cream on top, lifted Fliss with two hands and gestured for Ariadne to scootch over.

Ariadne knew those stories, stories about how people went to auditions with their friends to show support, only to have their own lives changed. Did she know this was how her story began? As she gushed over Yusuf’s magnificent-as-usual baking and tried not to drip ice cream on the sofa, she did not think so, no. 

  


* * *

  


Through the window, the shop looked nothing like Ariadne imagined. Plaster walls in shades of light, warm grey were gilded with gold and noticeably bare, save for the raw steel letters hung behind the counter in handwritten cursives: “Rêves dans les Rêves.” It was so minimalistic, upscale, and clean, like it sold custom-made jewellery in Soho. Nobody was in. 

Ariadne shot Lina a skeptical look. 

“This is it.” Lina nodded with conviction, and ran a hand through her hair quickly.

The space revealed its texture once they were inside. There was a whiff of fresh earth and dewy leaves in the air, a subtle, soothing scent, and the dark walnut counter had incredibly elaborate carvings which could only be appreciated up close. The woodwork reminded her of a nineteenth-century Renaissance Revival panel, yet its subject seemed, _unusual–_

“You must ask Eames about it.” 

Beneath the counter top just north of Ariadne’s line of sight, bright eyes smiled with mischief. Only then did Ariadne become aware she was squatting to obsess over furniture, and was caught in this clumsy position by this woman, who probably worked here and happened to the epitome of grace. Ariadne got on her feet, flustered, as Lina thankfully carried on.

It appeared Lina’s artist, Arthur, had an emergency, so the woman, Mal, was subbing him.

Mal was radiant, casually alluring in her presence. Delicate brows arched above round, topaz-blue eyes; bob-length waves were loosely swept to her right, and tucked behind the ear on her left, revealing a round silver stud on her cartilage. An oversized beige flannel shirt draped around her shoulders freely; black ink climbed her neck and clavicle like wild vines, only half-obscured by open collars.

“Your portfolio’s not on the website,” Lina tested.

“No.” Without a beat, Mal pulled a thick black binder from underneath the counter. “Here it is. Take your time with it.” 

When Lina stepped aside with the file, Ariadne felt Mal’s appraising eyes. 

“And you are?”

There is a sweetness in Mal’s tone which, mixed with the smokeyness in her voice, reminded Ariadne of peat-smoked Talisker.

“Ariadne.” 

“Ariadne. What a pretty name.” 

Mal leaned closer, resting both elbows on white marble. Breaking eye contact, Ariadne looked down and smiled in reflex, barely managing a “thank you”. She’s hardly bashful, but Mal’s gaze made her scramble, made her throat dry, made her want to do _something_ , although she didn’t know what, or how. The magnetism in Mal’s eyes pulled at Ariadne’s chest: she felt out of depth, and she was _thrilled_.

“Why isn’t your portfolio online?”

“They didn’t know I came back.” 

This must be how Mal had charmed many: with perfectly lined raspberry lips and a disarming, certainly illusory sense of directness. She seemed ready for more of Ariadne's questions; Ariadne was the one stumped.

Too soon, Lina came back to say Mal’s art was “very good”, and would like to talk about the tattoo. 

  


* * *

  


“Pain, is in the mind.” Mal offered, as if that was a consolatory thought. Ariadne didn't question the logic out loud, as the working artist’s needle had made contact on Lina’s skin.

Lina sucked in a breath and gripped onto Ariadne’s hand tightly, which made Ariadne yelp “ow!” despite herself. Looking up, Mal flashed a smile, before she turned to Lina.

“Let go.” Mal whispered, and wiped the patch of stinging skin gently.

The tattoo gun buzzed against an unplugged jazz soundtrack, a languid arrangement of an alto voice with classical guitar and strings; Lina closed her eyes in the leather reclining chair. Ariadne, on the other hand, couldn’t look away from Mal’s hand, which was tracing blue stencil with a light but sure touch. Stroke by stroke, the tattoo materialised on pale skin. The woman sang:

_Si les fleurs / qui bordent les chemins / se fanaient toutes demain –_

Beside check-ins and sparse instructions, Mal worked silently. Time passed in a hypnotic rhythm, of soft words and a steady mechanical hum. In the air, the melody hung like smoke, swaying in a slow dance:

_– Dans mon coeur / tu fleuriras toujour / au grand jardin d'amour / petite fleur –_

When the needle was set aside, after what seemed like hours, Lina blinked slowly to wake. Mal touched her at the elbow and gestured towards the full body mirror on the wall.

A branch of rue and a rosemary twig crossed and curved around Lina’s upper arm along the edge of her deltoid. The image had a sketch-like simplicity, but it was more liberal than reproduction, almost abstract. The black lines were vivid, smooth around curves and tapers at the ends, like markings by a fine-nib fountain pen, rendered with understated elegance.

In a one-armed hug, her chin hooked over Lina’s shoulder, Ariadne met Mal in the eye once again. Mal, who was a conjurer of magic, who appeared that day as suddenly as she disappeared in the following months – Mal smiled, perhaps to Ariadne’s imagination, wistfully, blue eyes unfathomable, and Ariadne felt keenly something like a loss of chance.


	2. JE CHERCHE UN FEMME

Plywood, AutoCAD: Ariadne spent two hellish weeks finishing her design project, clocking 16 hours and 7 shots of coffee per day. She had put on a suit, pulled through, and slept three days afterwards. (Each time she felt like she was barely cutting it, and that was exhausting in itself.) 

Then there were finals. (Don't ask Ariadne about finals.)

When the crew headed down to New York in May, a celebration was overdue. Taking the train to New York had become an end-of-term tradition: splurging on a Broadway musical or two, hitting a rooftop bar in East Village for the view, enjoying the sun by the Brooklyn Bridge, and indulging in dollar oysters on Bedford Avenue. Yusuf had bribed Tadashi with soufflés for cat-sitting Fliss, so the three of them could go. 

“Didn’t you say we should 'reset’ our experience of ‘urbanity’? What happened to that?” Yusuf punctuated with his hands for effect, and Lina snorted.

“You can go get a tattoo.” Lina suggested, sipping on tea and schadenfreude. “Since you’d be distracted, it might hurt less.” 

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Ariadne sulked.

Two months ago, as the train pulled away from Penn Station, Lina had showed her the Google results. The tattoo circle, like other industries, has its celebrities, and Mal was a mega star, as it had turned out. Not like Kat von D, with a TV show and make-up brand: Mal was sought-after but obscure. There were reviews of lucky walk-ins, last-minute bookings on a whim, and clients being cancelled and referred to another artist in short notice, until 2014. 

_Jul 12, 2014 – With sadness we announce our co-founder artist Mal has taken leave from the studio indefinitely starting this month. You may direct your queries to cobb@revesdanslesreves.com. …_

The mystery stayed with Ariadne quietly, latent. On overcaffeinated nights, in moments most random mid-day, between one step and another on the staircase to Rudolph 520, the thought of Mal surfaced in her mind: who was she? She smiled like someone Ariadne knew, but Ariadne couldn't remember.

Out of the L, Ariadne led Yusuf and Lina two blocks away to pass the door of Rêves dans les Rêves. The space was pristine and sun-filled as it had been in March, but Mal was not there anymore.

  


* * *

  


Fischer-Morrow’s office was in lower Manhattan. Naturally, Ariadne rented an apartment in Williamsburg for her summer internship. That was the economical option, so Ariadne told everyone, and had nothing to do with what had happened in March, so Ariadne noted in particular to Lina and Yusuf over their catch-up video call.

(“Is this a man-hunt? I have a mate who does tattoos in New York. Shall I enquire?” Yusuf bubbled with unwarranted excitement, while brushing Fliss in his lap.

“No.”

“You can hire someone. What are they called, skip… skip tracers.” Lina snapped a finger in the adjacent frame. 

“What? _No!_ ”)

If she had strayed from her commute to walk by the shop and, dragging her feet, stolen a glance to look for a face, well – she was in the area. 

She just wanted to check.

Sometimes, it’s a dude with dark hair slicked back, always in a shirt with rolled sleeves; sometimes, it’s a built man with chest and full-sleeve tattoos under a v-neck.

Maybe next time.

  


* * *

  


The everyday disappointments grew, drip-dropping on her hopes.

She stayed long hours at her desk, threw herself into every fire to see if she would come out intact. Off work, she followed the social routine of a twenty-something networking in a new city, circling between acquaintances old and new. It was boring; her mind was otherwise occupied, restless.

People flitted around, week after week. No one else latched onto her mind the way Mal did.

She was going to give up, but didn’t want to. 

At the tail end of July, mustering her bravado and a vaguely believable cover of having “tattoo aftercare questions for a friend”, she walked into the shop again and asked for Mal.

This was how she met Arthur, the lean one. Arthur couldn’t say when or whether Mal would be around, and Ariadne was going to leave with some dignity. Before she turned, something caught her eye.

“Nice one.” She bent her left forearm and pointed to its inside, mirroring where Arthur had a palm-sized linear tattoo. It looked like the penrose steps, with the particular uneven lengths and angles, but instead of being a loop of ascending steps, the first and final step was disconnected, the staircase open. It was a surprise: people are fascinated by optical illusions, but rarely do they want to break the illusion.

“Thanks.” Arthur nodded and, a beat later, blurted. “That was Mal’s, actually.”

Ariadne’s heart jumped like a string plucked. “Did you tattoo each other as, apprentices?”

“No. Cobb volunteered me for Mal to practise on.” Arthur said wryly. In the pull of his mouth there was a gleam of fondness.

“That doesn’t look easy for beginners.”

“Mal doesn’t do easy.” Arthur smiled fully this time, shaking his head.

The conversation skimmed the top of Arthur’s history with Cobb and Mal: Arthur had met Cobb at Pei Cobb Freed as an arch firm associate, a past in which Ariadne recognised herself. Later on, as Ariadne spent time in the shop, trading cold brew for air-con through the dog days of August, she met Eames, the buff one. She met Cobb once, even: blond hair, wild-eyed, father of Mal’s children. 

(When Arthur had explained that Mal had spiked Cobb’s coffee with laxatives, so she could break into the shop while Arthur took care of the chaos ensued, Cobb said gloomily, “I thought the capsules expired.”)

By the time she left New York, she had learned an awful lot about tattoos, and several stories about Mal. Arthur promised to stay in touch, Eames made her promise to stay in touch, Cobb gave her a business card – and still, she hadn’t met Mal again.

  


* * *

  


The end of summer sunk in at the thump of her suitcase on the floor, which brought her to a bitter resolution. 

She tore the pages out of her sketchbook. Pages, pages of Mal – the angle of her jaws, the bow of her lips, the curve of her brows and shape of her eyes – Ariadne tugged at the spine and pulled several pages at a time – the hollow of her collarbone, the layers of her hair – 

Mal was real, but in Ariadne’s mind, Mal was a memory losing shape. Ariadne didn’t know why she was so upset – what did she hope for? – but she was so, she was so – 

The sketchbook lay open, the edges of the missing pages raw. Ariadne clutched the loose pages with both hands, helpless.

  


* * *

  


October, trees lit up in red and gold in New Haven; the street outside Rudolph Hall was, however, unfortunately barren. Cutting through the chilly, damp air of the early morning, Ariadne tucked her scarf in and hurried inside, boots clacking, ready to get a headstart of the day before her 9 a.m.

In her studio, someone was standing over her desk, a woman in a wavy bob cut and a cream herringbone sweater jacket. She turned: there was a fleck of silver on the shell of her ear.

“You’re early,” Mal said, half a question and half an observation. She looked well, if not a bit tired around the eyes. 

In spring Ariadne drew and drew to find Mal under her pencil; in summer she looked for Mal everywhere she went, waited until she couldn’t anymore. And here Mal was, in her own space, in flesh. _Mal_ found her.

Dazed, Ariadne forced herself to say something. “You weren’t there. In New York.” 

“I left.” Mal plugged both hands into her pockets and stepped forward, looking at Ariadne softly, “I’m sorry you didn't know.”

Mal didn’t owe her anything. They were strangers whose paths crossed in a day, except now here they were, closer this time. Mal’s scent was full-bodied and sweet, like white flowers in the dark, luring Ariadne in. Joy warred with confusion: How did Mal know where she was? How did Mal get inside? Why was Mal here this early? Why was Mal here? Ariadne was all twisted up, and it must have shown, as Mal’s approach became more tentative.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Mal tried.

Ariadne had many questions, but Mal was here, and given that, did any of the questions matter?

“Did you break into the building?” Ariadne couldn’t keep from smiling. "Who did you poison this time?”

At that, Mal laughed, a full, warm chuckle, and Ariadne's heart bloomed in the midst of fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (belated) Valentine's Day! <3 There may or may not be an epilogue/follow-up, hench the unknown chapter number for now. I hope you've enjoyed so far. :)))


	3. epilogue. PLUS BLEU QUE TES YEUX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out that ratings bump and new tags!

“Chocolate fondants! They’re easy.” Yusuf lifted the lid and stirred the pot once, which sent beef cubes, carrot and onion spinning. Ariadne’s stomach gurgled. 

“I was twelve last time I baked.”

“‘ve got to start somewhere.” Yusuf fiddled with the stove knobs, his tone somewhere between matter-of-fact and encouraging. By his side, Ariadne hummed noncommittally. She found a spoon on the kitchen counter, gave it a wipe, and picked the coconut peanut butter off the condiment shelf.

“What do you usually do for Valentine’s Day?”

“I draw or make something, but I can't do that for Mal.” Ariadne dug in for a scoop.

“Why not? Also can you – ” Still not taking his eyes away from the pot, Yusuf gestured vaguely with his right hand in a grabbing motion, palm up. Ariadne flung the cupboards open and handed the bowls over, grumbling.

“'Cause Mal is insanely good at that. She's like, an actual famous artist! She’s teaching at the art school!” 

At the finish of that sentence, Ariadne's voice was shrill to her own ears. She put down the half-licked spoon, suddenly too aware of how high-strung she became. About the same time, Yusuf had poured three servings and turned around.

“What the _fuck_ Ari? Why are you eating peanut butter, I just made dinner?” Yusuf matched her in volume and feeling. 

“What’s for tonight,” Lina appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, sniffing, “Beef stew?”

Ariadne brought up the issue at wash up, which Lina considered a non-issue.

“It's a gift. You’re not competing against her.”

“That's not the point.” Ariadne tried not to sound upset. She wasn't frustrated with Lina. “The point is, I...” 

The point was, as someone who drew, she judged other people's art quickly, and she couldn't bear the idea of her art being dissected by Mal and given a charitable “A for effort”. _An above average concept executed in earnest, but lacking something, a je ne se quois, to elevate the piece._ God, she shrank at the thought, but didn’t know how to explain.

“Fondants are perfectly fine. Ari?”

“Yeah, I know.” Ariadne conceded, so she could busy herself with the dishes and not raise Lina’s concern. The water ran; doubt bubbled in her mind, a familiar foe.

  


* * *

  


Valentine's Day was a low-key affair, or so Mal said. After a few months of seeing each other, this was the first time Mal invited Ariadne over, a step which Ariadne took with trembling excitement. 

“Come in.” Mal kissed her cheeks and pulled her in, taking the box of fondants from her hands.

The tail of Mal’s dress moved with her into the light, a dark purple drape flowing from her waist to just behind the knees, resplendent. Its upper bodice was fitted, with thin straps crossing Mal’s back and tied in a tiny bow and, _oh_ – 

Roses, lilacs and peonies wrapped around Mal’s right shoulder and upper arm, now bare; what had been visible under shirt collars were merely tips of leaves. Each finely shaded flower gently stacked against the other, the ensemble blossomed in delicate grey lines. 

Unable to take her eyes off, Ariadne narrowly avoided tripping over her own boots. _God, was Mal gorgeous._

She recovered her breath, hung her coat and scarf by the door, and followed Mal inside. Mal’s apartment was like a plain sublet, with beige walls, silver accents and a dark wooden floor, except there was a brass lamp standing beside a striking sofa, a velvet Chesterfield in cat’s-eye green, with elegant rolled arms and deep buttons throughout the frame. It was the stuff that belonged to mansions and private collections. Curious, Ariadne slid her hand against the grain of the sumptuous fabric.

“Couldn’t leave it in Paris.” Mal said fondly, and held a bottle behind the granite countertop of her open kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Whatever you're having.” Ariadne gulped to lower her heart down between her ribs and steadied her steps towards Mal.

“I have boxes to unpack, and I really need to paint the walls.” Mal set two glasses on the bar and added, with a self-deprecating smile. “This place is a mess.”

“It’s not. I want to see what it’ll look like.”

The apartment was by no means untidy or embarrassing, though the decoration was incomplete: only the middle section of the shelves were filled with bric-a-bracs and books, and frames big and small sat on the floor against the walls. Like a canvas in progress, it was full of suggestions in negative space. It must be rare, Ariadne thought, for someone so put together like Mal, to show a half-drawn face.

The merlot opened with a pop, which snapped Ariadne out of her thoughts.

“What colour would you paint the walls?”

“Blue, maybe yellow. More?” Mal paused the bottle when the glass was a quarter full, and Ariadne raised an open palm.

Her head said blue (cobalt blue would be electric against the green); her heart said yellow (extraordinary). All she saw was red: a blurry mulberry stain of Mal’s lipstick, the apple-red of her manicure, the pinkness of lamb when the meat was sliced open, and wine washing down her throat, dry and sharp. (She had never learnt to appreciate red wine. Mal, thankfully, did not refill or ask about her unfinished glass.)

Afterwards, the fondants were set for a ten-minute bake in the oven. They settled themselves on the sofa. Emboldened, Ariadne curled her legs across Mal's lap, and rested her head against the velvet, nosing at the petals on Mal’s skin. Mal gave her an affectionate peck on her hairline with smiling lips.

“Cold?” Mal placed a hand on Ariadne’s knees, sending shivers up her leg. The intimacy was spellbinding, and the wine a perfect cover; Ariadne’s words spilled.

"I was worried I was crazy, when you turned up, that day, in my studio. I… I’m worried I _am_ crazy.” 

It's unattractive to feel insecure, surely, but she needed to address the elephant in the room. She had enjoyed Mal’s generous attention, and she could lose herself charting every little charm and surprise about Mal, but at night, alone, the impossible “why” gnawed at her.

Refreshingly, Mal didn’t pretend she didn't know what Ariadne meant.

“Ariadne _, you_ are the pretty one.” Mal turned and reached for her with her left hand. Brows pinched, she opened her mouth briefly, as if to speak, but pursed her lips and brushed a thumb across Ariadne’s cheek, caressing in wordlessness. 

Ariadne couldn’t help but laugh. Shaking, her tongue ran loose, slurring.

“M’not, not next to you. I can’t believe it, when I really _think_ about us, you, I – ah –”

A moan escaped mid-thought: Mal’s hand had moved up to comb through Ariadne’s hair and, drawing her in, touched her scalp with fingertips, and it felt so, so good. Ariadne melted, wanted to give Mal her bones.

When she opened her eyes again she saw, under Mal’s left clavicle, a blackbird with wings outstretched, its plumage lusciously shaded in black and greys, flying up and outward. Its eyes were fierce, its colouring dramatic against Mal’s pale skin. Ariadne noticed over dinner, but hadn't lost her sense of propriety to stare until now. 

“It’s a crow.” Mal murmured as Ariadne’s hand hovered, barely touching the inked feathers. 

What did it mean? Ariadne wanted to know. _What put a crow above your heart, and thorned flowers on your back?_ And more than ever, a bigger question loomed: _so what if I have the answers?_

Before the questions could slip out, Mal tugged at Ariadne’s hand, urging.

“Ariadne.” 

Rearranging their limbs, Mal guided Ariadne onto her lap, so that Ariadne straddled her thighs. Weak on her knees, Ariadne clutched at Mal, her forearms on Mal’s shoulders. Mal’s fingers threaded between her own; palms pressed against the back of her hands gently. 

Ariadne could feel the heaving of Mal’s chest, the ebbs and flows of her breath, before Mal’s lips parted. 

“You … don’t see what I see,” A smile abruptly broke, like a tide turning, and Mal reached up with both hands to cradle Ariadne’s face, “You’re so, bright. The way you light up when you have an idea, when you’re proud, when you tuck your scarf in.” Mal trailed her hands along Ariadne’s jawline, her voice soft but resolute, “Sometimes I’m afraid I can’t keep up. But you … you make me want to. To feel, everything.”

Under this light, Mal’s eyes were startlingly clear, with shades of blue rippling underneath.

Ariadne sank, breathless, as Mal pulled her into embrace: Mal was wet and warm, salty and sweet, like wine and meat and desserts forgotten. Between gasps for air in passion she found her, again and again. She clawed at her skin, traced the braille of her body, and kissed the things beyond comprehension through the night. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Renn** : this is all for you. It's lacking in fluff to be Valentine's-appropriate, but I hope you like the resolution and where the story went. 
> 
> The story ran away from me - I wanted to write a fluffy meet-cute like dasyatidae's [Flower Shop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9710972) with only a little of angst, but a few things became clear: (1) Mal had her plans and had to go her own way; (2) Ari was a fighter; and (3) they wouldn't see each other until some time later. So the angst proportion blew up. (I knew you can handle your angst though :p) 
> 
> Then I thought Chapter 3 would reveal Ari's art to Mal, but as any creator would know, gifting someone your art can make you feel vulnerable! So, a wine-enabled talk about insecurities happened, followed by snogging - I hope that's not too bad for a Valentine's Day gift. :)
> 
>  **All** : Thank you for reading! Your kudos and comments would mean so, so much to me. Not gonna lie: it's tough writing for rare pairs! I would be so happy to know what you think about the story. - V x  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * "<3" as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.


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